


half of a kiss

by cherubique



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Chronic Pain, Drugs, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24118192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherubique/pseuds/cherubique
Summary: House has experience when it comes to chronic pain: the monotonous repetition of shovelling Vicodin down his throat and dry swallowing, the heady thunk of his bitchin’ cane from a pawnshop against linoleum hospital flooring. Wilson, on the other hand- isn't quite as equipped to deal with the consequences of a script running low.Soulmate AU where soulmates feel each other’s pain.
Relationships: Greg House/James Wilson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 165





	half of a kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ofinscriptions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofinscriptions/gifts).



House ignores the pager at first. The droning tone is nothing out of the ordinary for him. It’s tucked into the pocket of a white coat up on a random rack- he can’t quite remember which intern it belongs to. It doesn’t matter. They’re interchangeable. His head is in his hands, a stress ball crushed in his fist: a lopsidedly smiling gift from Wilson to ‘better manage his stress.’ It’s dead, black matte eyes at least draw a sardonic smile from him. His blunted nails have punctured the flimsily stretched yellow skin- and he flicks at some of the spongy stuffing. It looks far less suspicious than the blue tinted goop he’s popped out from some other ominously smiling toys. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was carcinogenic. The irony in that is delicious. 

There’s a whole box of similarly haunted looking toys, the cardboard top of the box ripped open and shoved underneath his desk. Some of them look suspiciously like they’d be more at home in a slavering dog’s jaws. A couple still have bright clearance tags on them. The animal shelter might appreciate them. Barring that, the cursed secondhand shop, where porcelain dolls with glazed eyes sat in tattered lace frocks, perfect for buying in bulk and arranging around the couch in a circle to scare the living daylights out of Wilson on one of his drunken sojourns back into their shared apartment. Some of the particularly evil looking printed on faces would be right at home alongside those horrors. 

Most nights, Wilson slumps into the same bed as House- unbuttoning his collared shirt, letting his slacks pool on the ground, before the other side of the bed dips beneath his weight. They mostly sleep back to back, but on the odd occasion House wraps his lanky frame around Wilson, leg awkwardly positioned and propped up with a pillow to keep it tolerable- cheekbone a sharp edge against Wilson’s shoulder, snuggled close. They have two separate blankets: since House has a habit of selfishly swirling both around himself, cozied up like a cocoon otherwise. Even then, Wilson often wakes up in the morning to the cool air of morning and sunlight slanting in through their venetian blinds overtop his bare skin, prickled over with goosebumps. For the rare nights Wilson’s in the doghouse and hunkered down on the couch, though- House likes to think that he’d approve of the notion of being prepared. The demonic little dolls would be the jury in unanimous agreement. 

House digs a thumb into the side of his temple like he’s probing for a bullet jacket. It’s difficult to concentrate on the inside of his office: the furniture treated with hazy indifference, vision pinpointing clearly on only two things- the destroyed stress ball cradled in his palm, and the shooting pain radiating from his leg. Movement aggravates it more than usual- his uneasy swing and thunk of his cane biting into the linoleum an insurmountable task. He tips his head back, collar damp with stress sweat. He reeks of adrenaline. The ceiling swims in and out of focus, as if it’s underwater. The cane, a length of polished smooth wood with striped flames climbing up along the sides is leaning against the wall, sliding down a little. 

Wilson and him had picked it out recently, from a rack of gaudy offerings on display at the local pawn shop. It’d been a close decision, between the one that would be right at home in Guy Fieri’s summer wardrobe, and an elaborately snarling lion’s head wrought out of cheaply plated steel. If it was still there the next time he found himself in need of a replacement- House was fairly sure it could double as a stylish bludgeon. Maybe it might come in handy with some of the interns, or brandishing it to beat people in the mad rush for the elevators. Who wouldn’t want a cane that doubled as an efficient weapon? 

He’d already tried to reach for his prescription bottle of Vicodin, bright orange with a child safety pop and twist cap: but it’s empty, no pills ratling brightly around in its confines. The empty bottle is lying forlornly in his pocket- useless. A miscount, earlier- palming a handful and swallowing without thought for rationing them out. He should have known better; he’d already been running precariously low. It’s difficult to remember to keep track, especially when he goes through them like water on a house fire. House knows he ought to get up and stagger over to the pharmacy window, gruffly demand a refill and brandish the signed slip from Wilson’s own pad. The dull burn of mangled and absent muscle isn't going to go away on it’s own. 

He can’t quite bring himself to though, teeth grit- sweat beading up at his temples. A drop runs slickly down the side of his face. Nausea surges in his stomach. A muscle in his jaw twitches, as he tries not to accidentally bite down on his tongue. The pain comes in waves, roiling over him like high tide at the coastline, the sea foam laden surf swirling around his ankles. The grit of the wet shoreline’s sand felt an awful lot like the inside of his kneecap right now, the sensation of bone grinding against bone in the synovial fluid sickening. 

There’s a knock at the door. He’s midway through telling whoever it is to just _fuck off_ already, when Wilson’s face pops into sight. The door is pushed open, and he looks clammy, face pallid and a little green. “Vicodin,” he says, tossing a blessed little orange bottle at House’s head. Somehow, he manages to catch it, fingers fumbling with the top and flicking it off with his thumb. The white lid rolls into a corner somewhere- Wilson moving further into the room to scoop it up and place it flat on his desk. House is more preoccupied with shaking out some pills into his palm and dry swallowing them, too impatient to scramble to find something to wash them down with. Wilson clears his throat. There’s a crack, hissing carbonation- and House finds himself with his hand curled around a cold can of ginger ale. He raises one dark eyebrow at Wilson, before chugging it down. “Soda?” he asks, in mock scandalized tones, when he’s finished it off. 

“You’re going to make yourself sick,” Wilson sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, before settling down in the chair opposite to House. He responds by belching- and Wilson closes his eyes for a moment, clearly trying to scoop up his composure again. “Gross. I thought it might help settle your stomach,” he says, picking up a pen out of a coffee mug of dubious origin to scribble a little aimlessly on a slip of paper. “You should feel better in an hour or so. We should,” he says, clearing his voice as he clarifies. The little scribbles look an awful lot like the front of their apartment building. They’re disorganized, disorderly- the pen shaking a little in his hands, little flicks and smudges of the ink smearing across the paper and the flat of his hand. House reaches out to lay his hand overtop of Wilson’s- pressing it flat to the table. Warm, not quite holding his hand- but a steady reassurance. The pen drags across the page as it’s pressed down, cutting a line right through the number plate outside of their front door. 

“Can’t make myself any sicker if I’m already a scallywag of a dog, doc.” House snorts, the stress ball mashed up in his hand. “I’m well aware. This isn't my first rodeo,” he says, drawling his tone out- before tossing the ball over his shoulder: and having it land into the paper waste bin for shredded up patient files. It’s purely psychological: but the pain already feels a little more tolerable, even if he knows it’ll take time for it to hit his bloodstream and tank the sensation properly. He can’t remember when the last time he ate was. He pauses, trying to decide if he should continue with what he’s about to say- and does so anyways, licking the sticky traces of soda off of his lower lip, the can noisy in his hand as he presses in on its surface, denting and deforming it. 

“Little self serving for you to make a personal visit during on call hours, isn't it? Oncology’ll miss you,” he laughs. Wilson rolls his eyes, pulling his hand away to open a water bottle he fishes out of the inside of his white coat like a magician- House staring at him openly to see how on earth he managed to smuggle that in without an unseemly bulge giving it away. House wonders if Wilson has any snacks on him. A granola bar, or a cereal bar, or something. Maybe some Werther’s Caramels- hard candy for the geriatric patients, sucking on the sweets with deathly hollowed out cheeks. He takes a slow, measured sip.

“And here I thought you’d appreciate my coming down, House. I had a feeling you were hiding away from Diagnostics for a reason- your herd of baby ducklings came barging into my office, wondering if I’d seen you anywhere.” Wilson crumples up the slip of paper he’d been drawing on, flicking it at House. “Wondering if you’d been in an accident.” There’s an awkward pause that settles in between the both of them for a moment. House catches the crumpled up ball of paper, before shoving it into the empty can and tossing that into the same bin as the stress ball. The metal clatters noisily around, leftover soda sludging into the scraps of hamster bedding-esque paper. The cleaners are going to have some strong opinions about him ruining the recycling again. Not as if that’s his problem. 

“That’s two to nothing,” House says. “Better keep pace. I’m keeping score for the both of us,” he gestures to a white board smeared in black and blue tally marks in the corner of his office, two crudely drawn figures of the men sitting at his desk decorating the top. “I’m sure that they’d be able to deduct if I’d been in an accident sans a psychic link consult with ol’ Wilson. I’m kind of a big deal. Hard to miss this mug on the television.” He tries for a silly bit of smoulder. Wilson’s posture softens a little, tension having been tight between his shoulders- but his lips are pressed thinly together, not quite pleased. “Besides, tell them to leave. It’s your office. They need to learn to fend for themselves, they’re doctors, not medical students,” House continues, and Wilson just shakes his head a little bit. He pushes the bottle towards House.

“Drink,” Wilson says. “Don’t drink all of it, though- I’m about to head back out for a consult,” he says, looking down at his hip for a moment, where his pager is buzzing like a nest of bees. “You can get something from the vending machine for yourself afterwards, but you should wash down the soda. Or your mouth’ll be grimy,” he explains, and House shakes his head. At least most of the nauseous tinge to Wilson’s complexion has faded. 

“If it’s on your tab,” House says, slurping down the water and leaving about half of it left. “Take the rest and a hike,” he says, jabbing his thumb at the door- eyes half lidded. “I’d offer to give you an update on my condition in an hour or so- but I don’t think that that’ll be necessary.” The corner of his mouth quirks into half a smile. Wilson can’t help but mirror it, as he finishes off the water bottle. “That’s half a kiss,” House points out. “Hope you’ve got your cootie shot, recently.” Wilson chuckles, as he’s lining up the shot- and it sails narrowly over House’s shoulder, to smack into the can crumpled on top. 

“One to two. Better update your board,” he says. There’s a quiet snick- a handful of bills in ones and fives unfolded from his wallet and placed onto House’s desk. For the vending machine, presumably. “Unfortunately for you- radiology needs me right now. But maybe after work, I’ll give you the other half of one,” Wilson quips, before he’s walking out that door, and House is left to watch him disappear into the crowd of blue scrubs and white jackets. The corduroy pants are certainly a choice. It makes him resemble an overgrown teddy bear even more, when paired with his boyish brown curls and soft frame. 

“You better wash your face first, I’m sick of feeling like a rabid koala munching down on eucalyptus from the oily inside of your surgical mask!” House calls out after him- settling back into his chair. Wilson flinches a little, and there’s some curious eyes from onlookers. House can imagine the red flush that’d bloomed across Wilson’s face, the tips of his ears reddening as he tried to brush it off, hands tucked casually into his pockets as he hurried down the halls. He snorts, collects the change in his hand, and counts it- the bills rifled quickly through his hands like a blackjack dealer. Forty five dollars- a ridiculous amount for a vending machine snack run. 

“Maybe I’ll turn the tables for once,” he muses out loud- sharing, rather than munching away at the fries from Wilson’s lunch tray, or helping himself to a handful of expensive chocolates from a frilly heart shaped box on Valentines. There was a grain of truth in his favourite food being whatever Wilson was having- the glee he took in the blatant impertinence in swooping down like a shaggy, haggard magpie to peck away at the meal of the day. No one else was allowed to be so brazen, especially not on a regular basis. And croutons plucked from caesar salads always tasted best when stolen. He might genuinely shock Wilson into cardiac arrest with trying to share cheap junk food with him. Then again, the hospital _would_ be the best place to have one. Barring a cardiologist convention. He folds the wad of bills in half, slides it into his pocket- and grabs for the cane still slumped by the wall. He gets to his feet gingerly, the end of his cane firmly planted on the ground. 

He pauses, pivots his hips to limp over to the white board. It takes a moment to find a marker that isn't half dead- he’ll have to tell the interns to make a pitstop at a dollar store to scoop up some new ones the next time he sees them, and another bottle of acetone to wipe off the inky marks. Menial labour. Eventually, he lands on a red one- and slashes another line beneath Wilson’s side of the chart. He takes a moment to doodle little devil horns on top of the tiny drawn Wilson, and a curled, forked tail- before adorning the board with a flurry of hearts for good measure. 

The marker is recapped, and tossed carelessly in the little lipped edge of the whiteboard. He turns back around. House sucks in a clump of cold conditioned air- and hobbles off on a start for the vending machine, daydreaming of Kitkats, kisses, and the surprise painted starkly on Wilson’s face after their shift.

**Author's Note:**

> this one's dedicated to thom for enabling my bastard rat antics when it comes to this show. ❤︎


End file.
